The Rebel & The Redcoat
by Formidonis
Summary: Torn apart by war, brought together by a love that could not be denied... America/England Alfred/Arthur


**FortunesRevolver: **Credit for the title and summary go to Sanamura-san [Formidonis] here. We were talking late one night via MSN and I'd shown him a AmericaEngland wallpaper I found on DeviantART and he mentioned that one of the pictures looked like it belonged on a romance novel and continued to say what it might be named and wrote a one-line summary. From that, I was able to gather together the start of an idea and he happily obliged to writing this story with me—though he –claims- that he's a horrid writer, and I believe this to be poppycock—he's a bloody brilliant writer.

**Fomidonis(Sanamura)**: Hello dear readers! As FortunesRevolver mentioned, I did come up with the romance novel-ish title of this story, and inflicted myself upon her with the writing of it. And from this weak reed and despite my "help" she has somehow woven quite a tapestry, as I'm sure those of you who have read her other work, would have expected. Now, if you are somehow unfortunate enough to have not read her other work, go to her author page and do so. Right now. Honest, this will keep. I'll stall for you. –whistles- You're back? I know! The dialogue? Right? And the stories, and the romance, and the, well, everything. She's really good isn't she? Good, I'm glad you agree. Now, write her reviews until she does.

**FortunesRevolver:** …Free advertising? I'm flattered, Sanamura-san… But honestly, I'm nowhere near as good as he claims I am, but, seeing as I'm sure he's going to protest my words heavily the moment he's able to speak again, I'll simply claim that we've agreed to disagree. I think he's brilliant, and he, for some reason, seems to believe I'm the brilliant one. Now… on with the story notes. Ironically I, the American, took on the role of writing the "England-centric" part of this story and Sanamura-san, the British bloke, wrote the "America-centric" part.. I'm sure there is some irony somewhere in there… Now, Sanamura-san, have you anything else to say before I do the disclaimer?

**Formidonis(Sanamura):** -regains ability to speak- … Ow, um, well, only this: If, for some bizarre reason, you would care to join us and other like minded, (i.e, crazy) Hetalia fans on a newish but very good role-playing board, may I recommend: .com/Marukaite_Chikyuu/index/

I may? Why thank you. You are all so kind. Take it away, FR:

**FortunesRevolver:** –sigh- Fine. Neither of us own _Axis Powers: Hetalia_, though I do own a copies of various songs and the English-subbed episodes—not that it does me any good as far as making America/England canon goes.

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* * *

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**The Rebel and The Redcoat**

Rain fell down in heavy sheets over the battlefield, washing away the bloodstained grass and dirt leaving only sloppy mud in its wake. A line of soldiers dressed in deep navy blue uniforms stood behind their leader, muskets grasped tightly in their hands as they waited for orders from the captain, silently watching the lone fighter that stood several feet in front of their lead nation, America.

Several feet away from dirty-blond male stood another man, musket raised, a dark glare on his face. His golden blond hair was dark and mattered and covered in dirt and grime that was slowly being washed away from the rain, running down his face and neck to stain his crimson uniform.

The warriors barely dared to breathe as they waited for something, anything, to happen, but the two nations in front of each other simply stared one another down. They glanced at one another; unsure of what to do when America suddenly spoke, jerking them all out of their nervous stupor.

"Hey, England…" America said, raising his musket slowly, aiming it toward the blond in front of him. His finger twitched slightly, but never moved toward the trigger, the movement appearing to by symbolism more than anything else. "I want freedom after all…"

England's dark look twitched dangerously, the grip on his own musket tightening as he bettered his aim, but, like America, his finger had yet to move toward the trigger.

"I'm not a child anymore! Nor… nor your little brother."

England's expression seemed to fall, if only for a moment, before the glare was set back in place.

"I'm…" America continued, his voice drawn somewhere between pain and anger, "I'm… seceding from you!"

Silence fell over the battlefield once more as all eyes fell on England. Shock was clearly evident on the elder nation's face as he stared at the man in front of him, oblivious to the shoulders that stood ready to put a bullet in every inch they could reach if he made the slightest wrong move. His fingers twitched around his musket and his expression suddenly turned dark again as a violent spasm ran through his body before he let out a small cry of protest and darted forward shouting, "I won't allow it!"

America jumped, obviously not expecting the sudden attack and stepped back, lowering his weapon as he watched the other nation rushing toward him. Before anyone could blink there was a loud clattering noise as America's musket was thrown from his hands by the bayonet of England's. The gun hit the ground with a soft slush, embedding itself into the soppy ground.

The young nation blinked, staring blankly down the barrel of England's weapon as the older nation panted heavily, glaring at America for all his worth. Somewhere behind him, America faintly registered his platoon's captain shouting, "Fire!" and the sound of muskets being loaded, but no shots rang out. No one had the courage to pull the trigger, not with America so close to their target.

"Your incompetence is outstanding, you twat!" England snarled, his hands trembling slightly, the bayonet of his musket dangerously close to cutting America's nose. "Y-You can't…"

America gulped quietly, trying to keep a calm face as he stared at England, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses. He blinked slowly, one eye at a time, afraid that if he shut both it would be all over. He heard the soft sound a musket being unloaded before the one in front of him was slowly lowered.

"There's no way I can fire… Idiot…" the blond muttered softly, his face contorting in pain as he stared at America.

The younger nation opened his mouth to speak, but England had already fallen to his knees, shoulders hunched over and a dry sob escaping his lips. "Dammit!" he cried, covering his tear-stricken face with his right hand. "Why!? S-Shit… D-Dammit all! Why!?"

"England…" America muttered, looking down sadly at the older nation. "England, I…"

_**BOOM!**_

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England jerked upward in bed, eyes wide and a thin layer of sweat coating his body. He gulped loudly, running a hand through his messy dirty-blond hair and threw back his covers, glancing toward the rain-soaked windows.

"A storm..." The nation muttered softly, wincing as his bare feet hit the cold floor. _It's… just like back then._ Shaking his head, England quickly made his way across the room and slipped out the door.

The floors had never sounded so noisy to him until that night. With each step he took, he winced, nervously glancing around the hallway as if expecting someone, namely the nation from his dream, to suddenly materialize in front of him and accuse him of doing something questionable. He hesitated as he reached the staircase and leaned over the banister to glance at a door at the end of the lower hallway.

As it was, the young nation from his dream had, by a bout of questionable luck, shown up earlier that afternoon and invited himself to spend the night at England's house. It was that England was unhappy to see America—not that he'd ever admit it—but to have _that_ dream tonight of all nights and have _him_ as a guest… the two happenings put together did not leave much for a very happy England. If anything, it simply gave him one more thing to stress about as he attempted to make his way down the stairs quietly enough so as not to wake the other up.

**

* * *

**

America tossed and turned in his bed. He couldn't get to sleep. He sat up. He shouldn't have come here, he knew that now. It had been a bad idea, storm raging or not. He shouldn't have come to this old house, with its old rooms, old beds… and old memories.

He got out of his bed, and walked across to the window. He looked out into the storm, paying no attention to his reflection in the glass. It was a beauty, no denying that… and he had no hope of leaving before morning, at the earliest. This wasn't like him; he didn't reminisce, or get nostalgic. Onto the next, the newer, the bigger, the better. That was his way. But for some reason, being here, being alone with him again, he couldn't help but think of times past…

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It had been so easy up until then. It had been so easy to get caught up in the idea, in the excitement of it all; in the desire to prove he was an adult, to stand on his own two feet, to be free. The war, everything about it, despite all of the devastation, all of the turmoil… it had been easy. It had even been kind of fun.

Until he'd actually seen Arthur Kirkland—England. It had been a night a lot like tonight. Things had been building for a while, pushing them apart, and you'd have to have been an idiot to not realize that. Of course, England had no idea. It wasn't that he was an idiot… just that sometimes, with some things, you'd be forgiven for thinking he was. If England was happy, everyone must be happy, right? That's how his brain worked, and Alfred was sick and tired of it. This had to be done. It was right.

But it wasn't easy any more. Or fun. He told him, told him he was leaving, that he wouldn't be his kid, his little brother, or his god-damn side-kick anymore. And he watched his old fri- no, his enemy now, and he saw his face change. He saw his expression change from bewilderment to shock to fury as he dropped the mask he usually wore, the one that made him so hard to read. Even that glimpse had been literally shocking, and that was probably what had let him be caught off-guard.

England had crossed the ground between them in a second. He'd disarmed him like an amateur, and the shame of that still hurt after all these years. But not as much as what came next. He'd found himself staring at a bayonet, but that was pointless. It was never a bayonet that killed you; it was the man holding it. So he looked beyond, and saw that the mask was back firmly in place now.

But it didn't reach his eyes, his deep green eyes.

Eyes that had comforted him, scolded him, and held him close. Eyes that had been old long before he was born. Eyes that, for all their kindness, could kill, had killed, and would kill again. And they were looking at him in anger… and in such pain. He stared at his friend. He just… he didn't understand. Why couldn't he understand? He didn't need him. He still had half the god-damn world! This had to happen, for both their sakes… Didn't he know it hurt him too?

The next part always felt like a blur. Always. Blinking, slowly. Thinking for a moment that England would pull the trigger. Watching his friend throw the gun away, and sink to his knees, and almost wishing for a second that he had. Seeing something he never thought he would see. Stepping forward, wanting to say something… and then… well, and then…

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A crack of thunder shook America out of his reverie. _The hell with this…_ He thought, angrily, turning away from the storm. Staring out of the window and thinking about the past, like an old woman. What the hell was wrong with him? He must be hungry, or, or something. He decided to go down to the kitchen. England would have something to eat in the house. It would probably be bland and tasteless, but that was to be expected. He pulled on a dressing gown Arthur had provided, and put his glasses on.

There was a noise out in the hall. It was quiet, but it was there. It was… near the stairs, maybe?

America felt an eyebrow rise. That wasn't right. It wouldn't be England moving around. He was a creature of habit, he was. _Maybe it's one of his fairies_, he thought with a sarcastic smile.

Then it struck him. What if it was a… He broke into a cold sweat. It could be a… no, he wouldn't say the word. Just because he was in an old, and suddenly extremely spooky house, that didn't mean it would be a... a…

His sense of reason kicked in, and he calmed down. Just in time. That would have been no way for a hero to behave. Well, of course it wasn't a ghost. It was a burglar! He nodded in certainty, and smiled to himself. Well, he'd picked the wrong damn house tonight. He reached over to the bedside table and picked up a candlestick and tested the weight. It would do. He crossed the room, slowly and silently opened his door, and stepped outside…

* * *

England cursed softly as he stumbled upon reaching the bottom of the stairs. The long crimson carpet that ran along the hallway was rumpled, leaving an easy opening for one such as America—as England's ankle had given out, he hadn't tripped, he was sure of that—to trip on. With a heavy sigh, the nation stepped over the ripple in the carpeting and continued down the hall.

_Clumsy git…_ The blond nation thought bitterly as he entered his kitchen, running his finger along the wall until he found the light switch.

"Ruddy-!" The light was immediately turned back off as England blinked furiously, trying to clear the white sports from his eyes as he recovered from his momentary blindness.

When his eyesight had finally cleared enough for him to see, he navigated himself cautiously around the table and chairs, making his way toward the counter where he could see the silhouette of his tea kettle. Next to the kettle was, of course, a box of teabags. The teabags and kettle were the only items he ever dared leave on the counter. Everything else was kept nice and clean, but tea, of course, was kept in an easy place to find, especially if, like tonight, he woke up around midnight and needed tea to calm his nerves—not that he was upset from his dream in the slightest. No, it was because that bloody American had, once more, barged in on his hospitality and gone so far as to stuff his freezer with hamburgers—_his freezer!_ Which quite clearly implied to the Britain that the young nation implied on returning at a later date—likely before the end of the week—and cooking the offending burgers on _his_ stove, or even worse, the grill that America had dropped off at his house almost 200 years ago insisting that it was "needed" and would be "put to good use."

_About as useful as that rubbish he calls "coffee"… Good for the body and mind my arse. All it does is give him more energy than he, or anyone, should have to deal with._

As he set the kettle on the stove and turned up the heat, he sighed once more and reached for the overhead cupboard to get a teacup. Just as his fingers wrapped around the glass, a big, large _something_ collided with the top of his head and he lost his grip. The cup landed on the floor and shattered as England grabbed his head, blinking the stars out of his vision.

* * *

America crept down the stairs, in a cat-like fashion, if he did say so himself: silent and deadly. The time he'd spent convincing Japan to teach him his Ninja Secrets had clearly been well spent. He was surprised for a second, when a sudden light flared from the direction of the kitchen but was gone just as quickly. He grinned in the darkness. Clearly, the burglar was getting cocky. He thought he just had an old codger like England to deal with. Well, bad luck for him, because he just happened to pick the night 'Alfred : American Hero' was in town. Hell, he almost felt sorry for him.

At the exact moment he was thinking this, his foot managed to entangle itself on the landing carpet, and America found himself falling backwards, towards the stairs. He managed to catch himself, via the banisters, but this required dropping the candlestick… onto his foot. He swore in his mind, quite extensively. Fortunately, no one had seen this happen. That meant, obviously, that it hadn't.

He looked at the carpet. So, it had been a trap. He gritted his teeth. Clearly he had underestimated this burglar. He was clearly dealing with a devious, even fiendish mastermind here. Luckily, he was the right man for the job. He crept towards the kitchen, cautiously. This required precision. He stepped into the kitchen, and saw a figure. With great speed and agility, he cried "Gotcha!" and swung with all his might.

"Bloody hell!" England cried, glaring as tears gathered reflexively in the corners of his eyes. He turned, blinking in momentary surprise as his emerald irises met a pair of sapphire ones before a dark glare set in. "What the ruddy _hell_ do you think you're going, you daft fool!?"

America looked at England, and then looked at the candlestick he had just hit him with. Well, that could have gone better. "What do I think I'm doing? Hitting a burglar, of course." He stated in a matter of fact manner. He looked at England in irritation. "What are you doing, creeping around your own house this time of the night? Did you hear a noise too?"

He walked around the room, not really listening, taking it all in. It was so neat and tidy it was… disgusting. He didn't like things this clean, this well organized. It made you feel like a robot lived there, not a person. Still, maybe that wasn't so far from the truth. If England had feelings, by God almighty, he hid them well. That's why it was so hard to come here, so hard to talk about things that had passed between them. Damn it, he never made it easy. America sighed. He was awake now, and he was hungry. He would do the best he could to salvage something from the night. "So… Where is the grill I gave you? It's about time someone cooked real food in this kitchen." He said, turning to England with a grin.

England growled again, his expression irritated. "Get out of here, you twat! You burst into _my_ kitchen at an ungodly hour, _hit me_ with _my_ candlestick then demand to know why _I'm_ moving about!? Go back to bed!"

In reply, all England received was a roll of the eyes and a, "Pffft…" from the young nation who was clearly more amused with the situation than the older nation would have liked.

"Don't 'Pffft' me, you _side-kick!"_ It wasn't a powerful insult, and it was a fairly lame one at that, but the Englishman knew it would push America's buttons enough just to extract a small amount of the revenge he wanted for the splitting pain in his temple.

His efforts paid off when the young nation's eyes narrowed and he frowned, pointing an accusatory finger at the Britain, glaring. "Oh… You went _there!_ I'm no side-kick! I'm a Big Damn Hero!"

England scoffed, rolling his eyes. "A _Big Damn Fool_ is what you are… I've always wondered why it was done before, but I'm starting to understand the reason why your coffee rubbish is made of _nuts! _Your ruddy mentally unstable, and can't tell a criminal from the one who _raised you."_

"Y-Yeah, well…" America paused for a moment, considering his words before saying, somewhat lamely, "Tea is made from leaves. Like _salad._ And everyone knows hero's eat _beef!"_

"_Well,_ that would explain why the heroes are always twice as large as their side-kicks, doesn't it!?" The blond snapped, glaring at the caramel-brown-haired male in front of him. "Their partners are the only ones with enough common sense to eat healthy! The 'hero' puts on all the weight from the greasy slobs of meat he seems to have deluded himself into believing is food! No, sorry, I've forgotten… That's their bloody ego!"

"_And_ gets the girl, _and_ the glory, _and_ saves the day! But, no, _nooo_, side-kicks eat _healthy!_ You know why? It's because the side-kicks have to wear shorts!" England stared blankly at America, the older nation couldn't even imagine where this was going. "It reminds them who's in charge. And ego…? Heroes don't _have_ egos! I can't _help_ the fact that I'm _amazing."_

Arthur sputtered, gaping at Alfred in shock as he tried to process his so-called 'come-back' and make sense of whatever it was he was trying to claim with it. "Amazing? _Amazing!?_ At what? Running around like a foolish womanizer? Shoving enough burgers down your throat that no one can understand a ruddy word you're saying? Excuse me if I don't want to eat at Happy McHeart-Attacks every day. I'll send you a bloody rose when you land yourself in the hospital—and here's a thought, why don't you stop wasting so much money on burgers and feed some of your homeless!?"

"Heroes don't _do_ to the hospital," America retorted, arms crossed in self-satisfaction. "Unless we're picking up a nurse, or swearing revenge for a fallen friend. You know, like a friend who was too weak from eating salad, and blood pudding, and spotted… spotted… whatever the hell it is, to fight properly! The HERO swears revenge for his comrade, even though his comrade was a pain in the ass, tea-drinking, cricket-playing, fairy-seeing, pansy-ass!"

England's eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth to retort, pausing momentarily as he seemed to reconsider his actions. A small smirk danced across his features as an idea suddenly formed in his mind. The older nation knew _all_ of the young nation's weaknesses and what buttons to push if he wanted a reaction. If America wanted a fight, he was going to get one.

"You…" Taking a deep breath, England pointed over America's shoulder with a trembling hand, his eyes wide and voice shaking. "Wh-wha… What is… G-G-G-Ghost!"

"I… What?" America's face paled as he stared at England. A girlish shriek burst from the glasses-clad male's throat, and he dived under the table, hands over his head. "Get it out!"

It wasn't until England started laughing that America finally peered out from under the table cautiously, fighting a blush as he realized nothing was there. Taking one more careful glance around the kitchen, he crawled back to his feet, starting toward England who had finally calmed himself down.

"Well done," the blond said rolling his eyes. "You're quite the _hero."_

"I…I… Hey! I don't have to stay here and take this abuse, you know! There are a lot of people who want to abuse me!" The nation paused, an odd look on his face as he realized his words sounded vaguely France-like. "Okay, that came out wrong. The point is, you are a pansy and you think you can see _fairies_. It's not cowardly to hide from ghosts. They are dead things. Dead things are supposed to stay dead."

The older nation couldn't help but stare. That comeback hadn't made sense in the slightest. Dead things were supposed to stay dead? The boy was completely hopeless, and it annoyed England to no end to know that he didn't have the slightest idea where he got all his nonsense. Hadn't he raised him properly? _Ghost?_ _Honestly, what a fool…_

"You're a complete imbecile," he finally spoke, crossing his arms stubbornly. "Ghosts are supposed to stay dead? They don't even exist, you fool. You're _wetting_ yourself over something _completely_ fictional! This is exactly why you need to stop trying to remake Kiku's horror films! You're a ruddy coward and you can't even sleep after watching one!"

"I'm _not_ a coward! I ain't scared of nothin'. You hear me? _Nothing!_ That was a tactical withdrawal as I reconsidered my plan of attack, buddy. And at least I still make horror movies. Real horror movies, with blood and chainsaws, and stuff. I mean, what do you make? Fruity movies where old people talk to each other for three hours? And who are you to tell me something doesn't exist? You used to tell me you rode a unicorn! I mean, you use one and a lion as your symbol. When was the last time England saw a lion, dumb-ass?"

England retorted, equally angry. "Tactical withdrawal!? You were _cowering _under my dining room table like a child in a thunderstorm! And lions stand for courage, you twat! Not that you'd know anything about that, ghost-boy—and don't insult the unicorns! At least they don't turn tail and run at the word 'phantom'! You were just running away! Just like you did all those years ago!"

America bit back on a response. The storm outside had stopped, but the one in here had more than taken its place. There it was. What they were really arguing about. After all this time. Who did he think he was? There was a long, dangerous pause, and when America spoke again, it was in the low tone that meant he was truly angry. "How _dare_ you? How _DARE_ you bring that up, now, like this? I _didn't_ run away, England." He shouted as he stared his old mentor straight in the eye. "I left you because you gave me no choice. You never think about anyone else—you never have! You never spared one thought for what it was like for me… to be stuck in your _shadow! _ Did you ever once think how hard it was for me to let go?"

"Let go!? LET GO!?" England shouted—almost shrieked—his face red with anger. "You didn't let go of _anything!_ You bloody ran away! Who was it that ALWAYS stuck his neck out for you when the other nations picked on you? Who was it that cooked for you, gave you a roof to live under, clothed you, and even made ruddy TOYS for you by bloody hand! You daft fool! Who was it that dried your tears when Japan decided to act like a bloody moron and drop a bomb on your country!? Who came running to your aid the minute you asked!? And what do I get in return!?" He turned, gesturing to punctuate every word. "First I get blown off as you run off and become... become..." The word 'independent' wouldn't pass his lips and England found himself continuing regardless, his anger still at a peak. "…and now... now I just get a freeloader who shows up whenever he fancies to use my stove, my grill, my bed, and or whatever it is you feel the need to touch!" He stared at America, his eyes wide. "Do you even understand how painful it is to look at you like this!? To know that in the morning you're going to walk out that door, _again!?_ Do you know what you did the moment you left me!? Dammit, I-l..." he trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

America got close to England, his face just inches from Arthur's, his anger rapidly turning into outright fury. "Yeah, you did look after me, I've never denied that. Tell me I did, and I'll call you a liar to your face. Tell me I didn't do the same for you. Tell me that when you were threatened, really threatened, whatever went on between us; tell me I wasn't there for you. Even when your god-damn pride meant you didn't have the balls to ask." He sighed, trying to push his anger away.

Alfred stepped away. This wasn't what he wanted, it wasn't why he'd come here. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "You always looked out for me, always protected me. But you wouldn't let me be me, Arthur. You never thought that maybe, just maybe, I didn't want someone to look after me, that I didn't want to be your little ally, your hanger on, forever. None of us wanted that. You didn't raise us that way, but you never got it. I didn't want you to protect me. I wanted to be strong on my own." He turned away, this was hard enough to say under any circumstances, but looking at him, it was impossible. "I wanted to protect you."

"You... you..." England found himself mouthing words, but with no sound coming out. "You're... so.... stupid. I don't want your protection! I just…" He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. "I just wanted _you!_ I've had so many others leave me, but dammit, you leaving hurt the worst! I've never been able to forget it! Every night it rains like this I remember that night and I can't sleep… I..." He trailed off, and the only sound in the room was the tea kettles whistling. England turned towards it, and, distracted, grabbed the red hot handle with his bare hand. "Gah--! Bloody hell! Hot...!" He turned the stove off quickly, and put the kettle down.

"Did you burn yourself?" America asked, redundantly, and crossed the room in a few big strides. After a brief tussle, he managed to get England to let him look at his hand. "I, let me look, damn it, let me look." He looked at it, judicially, his cobalt eyes inspecting the burn through his glasses as he held England's hand carefully in both of his."It's not too bad. You got lucky. With that free health care you got these days, I'm sure you'll be fine..." He looked up at England, still holding his friend's hand.

"... I'm not good at this stuff. You know that. You know everything. You think I don't remember that night? Do you think I could forget what we shared? You were my _world_. You were my brother, my father, my best friend, all in one. I lived for you.. But I couldn't go on living that way. It wasn't right. I needed to live for me. I was just another possession to you. That's all I was. Another nation for you to mold and shape in your image. Well, you did. You taught me well, and I learned every lesson I could but there were some things you couldn't teach me.. Things I needed to learn, that I needed to do for myself, Arthur. I needed to be my own man. How else could I ever make you proud of me?"

England shook his head slowly and muttered, "...Fool. I _am_ proud of you. I just... don't..." He growled in frustration, at both America and himself. "I just... don't... know how to show it." He turned away, towards the stove, and moved the kettle. "I only clung so tightly... because I was terrified you'd leave like the others. In the end, It looks as if I was the fool... because that was my downfall."

There was a pause, as neither of them seemed to know what to say. The silence was broken when England opened the cabinet again. "Do you... want some coffee?" He asked, pulling out a fresh bag of coffee beans, his flush evident, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

America had paused. This was a lot of take in. Then what England said struck him, and he tilted his head to the side.

"_You _got _coffee?_" He broke into a brilliant smile, the way only he could. "I'd love a cup, thank you." He looked away, feeling a little sheepish. "There's some... green stuff, in the fridge. I was just going to put it on my burgers, but there is probably enough for me to make you a salad. You know, if you want me too."

England scoffed. "I'll make my own salad, thank you. I doubt you know how..." His words could perhaps have been considered cutting, but they lacked any malice. "A-anyway..." He said, holding out a mug. "Drink your... coffee. I only keep the beans because I know you won't drink any form of tea that's served to you and I don't need you passing out from lack of fluids."

He frowned and the question America had asked earlier suddenly replayed itself in his mind. _Why on earth would be need to know, anyway? Isn't it obvious? _"The grill is out back. Why the bloody hell would it be in the KITCHEN? You of all people should know a grill is meant to be used in ones garden." His blush darkened. "Just... grab your meat patties and come out back. I'll turn the ruddy thing on and heat it up for you." He said, clearly trying to play it off.

America leaned back and laughed, "Sure, I know where a grill goes. I wasn't sure you did." He smiled at his friend. He knew when England meant to hurt, and when he was just being... well, England "I mean, when have you tried to cook with it? You're the only nation I know that's tried to boil pizza." He shook his head in mock mourning as another thought struck him.

"You keep the coffee for when I come over?" His smile grew a little curious, and he took a mouthful. "Hmm. it's... not bad. You might want to watch that, or you might never get rid of me."

There was a pregnant pause between them, broken when he put the cup down, and opened the fridge, starting to pile all of his food together. England began turning away, and was starting to head outside. America called out to him, over his shoulder, still facing the fridge. "Hey, Iggy… Thank you, you know, for saying you're proud of me. It... Well, it means more than I know how to say. I know I might not always act like it, but all I ever wanted was to be able to look you in the eye."

England stopped in his tracks. He found himself blushing, and looked to his side.

"Amer—Alfred." Words would do here, he sighed and shook his head, walking back over to the younger nation as he turned America around, making sure their eyes met. "You... have never had a reason not to look me in the eye. You're... strong and confident... if anything... I.... felt as if I'd fallen in your shadow..." He paused to clear his throat, looking and acting a little flustered" I-In any case, a child such as yourself can't use the grill without an adult watching. I'll have to join you outside."

There was another long pause, then, slowly, ever so slowly, England leant in and gave America a chaste peck on the cheek.

Alfred felt Arthur lean away from him, the feeling of his lips still lingering faintly on his cheek. He could have left it at that—maybe he _should_ leave it at that, but he couldn't. Not tonight. It was a night like tonight which had changed things between them forever. Maybe it would again. He stopped England, Arthur, from moving away by grabbing his forearm. He didn't know if he'd have another shot at this, so he was going to try to do it right.

Sapphire orbs stared into beautiful green eyes that seemed to bore right through the young nation who leant in close, and kissed the other full on the lips. His arm around Arthur's back, pulling him close and put a hand against the back of his head, holding him closer still, waiting, hoping his friend's mouth would open against his... and when it did, his tongue claimed it as his own. They stayed together for a long moment, but like most wondrous things, it couldn't last forever. He let England go, and stepped away, feeling himself doing something uncharacteristic; he was starting to blush.

"...I'd been meaning to do that for a while. Thought now would be a good time." He looked down and away, trying to hide his flushed cheeks. "...You taste of tea."

England's cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red that would have put his colonial uniform coat to shame. His gaze shifted toward the wall, unable to look America straight in the eye as he coughed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. _Wh-what… Why… How…?_

Clearing his throat loudly, England finally spoke, his voice faint and slightly disoriented as he tried to recover form his shock. "U-um... I'll just... go start the grill then, shall I?" His blush, if possible, darkened as he hurried toward the kitchen door, pausing for a moment. _It's not later than four in the morning, and we're going outside to grill... Bloody hell, I have been around him too long..._

"Hey, Alfred... Grab an extra one for me, alright? I... suppose I could skip my salad. ...Just for today. Better to have you cook it than Arnold McDoners, or whatever his name is...."

America smiled, utterly grateful for the simple fact that no matter how red his face got, a stuttering off-guard England would always out-blush him.

"Whatever you say, Iggy." He smiled, and turned back to the fridge, to get the relevant ingredients. Nothing excessive, he didn't want to put the light weight off. Four quarter-pounders each should be enough for a snack.

When he reached the back door, he paused, and looked through the glass window at England, who was busying himself with the grill and found himself smiling. The storm had passed, inside and out, and a long dark night was finally ending with the promise of a bright new morning to come. He opened the door, and stepped out into tomorrow.


End file.
